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Month: June 2017

Dusk was looking beautiful. Sun had almost set in and meticulously, it moved below the large wires and cables – silhouettes in different shapes and sizes. Gajodhar dragged his rickshaw toward his hut after dropping the young man at the address mentioned in the piece of paper. Basanti, his wife peeped from the small outlet. His wife worked as a maid in one of the apartments in the nearby society. They had put up a hut in the slum area near the DLF mall of India.

Scores of people, mostly immigrants from Bihar had come and nestled here. Leagues of rickshaws stood at one part of the slum and huts on the other.

Their shelter was compact and it had all the essentials – a charpoy where mostly Gajodhar would sleep, mattress where rest of the family would crash, a black and white TV placed diagonally on the right, and a kitchen on the left. The small kitchen had a stove, few bowls and plates nearby. To meet nature’s call and daily bathing, the family managed to make a corner made from wheat sheets, bags and bed sheets. Not a very comfortable bathroom it was, but it qualified as a namesake. Every morning, Basanti would make rotis first and keep them in a container covered with newspaper along with some pickle. This way, whenever they would leave for work, the couple would quickly grab the rotis without any haste.

Everything was methodically taken care by Basanti, an average built, dusky woman in her late thirties. Mostly draped in chiffon sarees, she loved wearing bangles and anklets and highly noticeable orange vermillion. The entire package was Gajodhar’s favorite and no wonder why, she loved staying that way round the clock. Her Hindi was broken but she managed after she was exposed to the city life. Overtly dependent on Gajodhar, Basanti avoided talking to people not only because she was shy but also, did not know what to talk about. However, she was comfortable with Nadiya, her neighbor. Both would sit on the pathway of their huts and watch aristocratic people walk by. They would gaze in utter amusement – bling everywhere, monetary bliss, security in all corners and happiness scattered like that of stars.

Those days when Nadiya and Basanti came early from work, they would never cease to sit for their evening ecstasy.

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Basanti started working only after she got married to Gajodhar. Earlier, she did some stitching and once, worked as a babysitter. The couple had three children, Nima – 12, Pinky – 10 and Prince – 10. While, Nima and Pinky didn’t go to read, Prince was given the privilege to attend the government school. Like many disinterested children, Prince equally did not find any curiosity for books; he went just for the midday meal. He would bring bananas for sisters many a times which in a way was a good deal for the family as a whole. Though, Prince would mostly bunk classes, go to the nearest office space to see people, walk on the railway tracks and puff Bidis, his classmate and best friend Hukum brought.

The father paid around Rs.50 as the annual fees in the school. While for Nima and Pinky, he had decided to do Gauna (marriage) by the time they turn 15, till then they were supposed to take care of the household chores. Basanti had this urge to send her daughters to school too. Sigh! Prince – 1, Pinky and Nima – 0

Night had basked in full swing. Chapatis were being prepared and some potato curry. Pinky was serving while Nima was baking. Basanti was kneading some wheat dough for the next day.

Gajodhar and Prince were being served. Key members get served first.

It was quiet till Gajodhar stroke the first chord of communication, “Did you pour all the chillies?” The curry looks red.” Basanti diverted her years of guilt pleasures to Nima as the elder daughter of the family was officially, cook of the house now.

While Gajodhar complained, another key player, Prince fiddled with his chapatti, till a flying spatula greeted him on his head. He sat in peace.

“She has hit 14. I guess by next year, she should be married.” Announced Gajodhar.

Nima, just another reflection of Basanti buried her red face into the chapatis. All eyes, all utilities and all things in the house looked at her in one direction at a fraction of second.

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Paddling with full force, Gajodhar took a U turn, balanced his isometric strength and moved his rickshaw toward the DLF Mall of India. “Bhaiyya! Stop at the gate number 1 please”. Said one of the two ‘just-out-of-Instagram’ girls sitting on his rickshaw. The sun rays were sharp and piercing, like a bunch of needles penetrating deep inside human flesh. Men, women and annoying children were passing by. Busy populace!

The upscale girls got down from the vehicle in their frocks and heels. Almost tripping on the uneven road, one of the girls handed over Rs.30 to Gajodhar. He wiped off his sweat and took the money. As the girls continued their fluctuating ramp walk, Gajodhar called from behind, “Madam, only 30 rupeeeej? 50 madam, pleeejj.”

“What bhaiyya! you are asking for too much.” Said one of the ‘just-out-of-Instagram’ girls.

“Madam, 50!” Gajodhar demanded.

“Sorry! It takes only 30. We will not pay a penny more.” Said one of the girls and the small brigade continued the ever fluctuating walk.

Gajodhar frowned, he wanted to argue a little more but there were more people in the audience and lesser participants. There was no scope for impromptu debate performance. He looked at those girls walking toward an outlet, that had a mammoth banner.

It read – ‘ZARA sale! Get a dress worth 5000 at just 4999.’

One of those ‘just-out-of-instagram’ girls exclaimed, “Oh! Sale. Such bliss.”

Zara – 1 Gajodhar – 0

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Gajodhar Dhasa, a thin man in his early forties had come from Chapra in Bihar several years ago to Noida. Nestled in a slum area near sector 18, Gajodhar had been pulling rickshaw for several seasons now. Average looking, dusky, moustache laden, sheepishly smiling sometimes and over-smiling, Gajodhar often felt, little bit of extra money could make his life better. Just a little extra.

His rickshaw would be located mostly at the gate number. 02 amongst several other rickshaw walas. Pedestrians came mostly from that gate and they would call for public transport. He would often claim to the fellow rickshaw walas while waiting for his passengers, “When I have an extra money, I will go to that fancy restaurant with my kin.” He would point out at 5 star hotel – The Unison Hotel, right next to the DLF Mall of India. His fellows would chuckle in the same rhythm like that of bobble heads for some time.

And he would only answer one thing, “Unimaginable things happen when you dream”.

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Sharp and piercing sun rays were mellowing down, sun was setting in steadily. People were hastily walking, driving for their cabs or waiting near the mall. It was just another day for service men, daily wagers, elites and the shopkeepers.

Gajodhar at gate number.02 was resting on his rickshaw. He was busy digging his nose and seemingly looked disappointed at the performance of his fingers. Just when big blob was on its way, a young man came to him.

He asked, ” Chaloge? See this address and drop me here.”

Gajodhar quickly rubbed his painstaking hand on his dhoti and craned his head at the small piece of paper to understand the gibberish. Scratching his head, he successfully pretended for straight half a minute and sheepishly smiled. The young man quickly got it. He said, “Oh! OK! Let me read it out to you.”